Edited to add: My sister-in-law, who accompanied me to my transfer since my husband is out of town, surprised me with these baller socks that have MY DOG’S ACTUAL FACE ON THEM!
When you’re infertile, there rarely seems to be a middle ground in anything. Emotionally, I am certain that my next fertility treatment will be successful one moment, and I’m a dumpster fire of despair the next. Nothing will ever work, I tell myself as often as I silently say this is it.
Starting this last round has probably amped up these disparate feelings. I’m two days into my estrogen (Estrace) regimen to build up my uterine lining pre-transfer, and my emotions are already on 11. Plus, my feeling nauseous. I asked my husband last night if he remembered me feeling sick during my last FET cycle when I started the estrogen, but neither of us recall it. It’s funny how every cycle is just a little bit different. Funny in an oh lord what’s next way, not in a haha way.
As I’ve written about before, I see signs in everything. There’s already so many in this last round. Despite my best efforts to plan, my transfer of Olaf and Anakin will be after my husband has left for a three-month new job training. One day after. This, of course, makes me sad. If the transfer does work, he missed it, and he’ll also miss almost my entire first trimester. Which means I have to get my own damn ice cream at midnight. If it doesn’t work, I’m alone to process it. If it works and then I miscarry again, then just commit me to the psych ward because I’m likely to break.
Another sign in the positive column is that my husband got this new job at all. He’s been stuck in a crappy job that he hated for years and no leads had panned out in a very long time. In fact, the last time he got a new job, we were also apart. Two days after our wedding he left New York to interview in North Carolina for his (still) current job, and less than two weeks later he moved here. We spent the next five weeks of our newlywed lives hundreds of miles apart until I could move South as well. Major life change seems to equal time apart for us.
The final sign is that, if this transfer sticks, my due date would be sometime in April. And previous Aprils have sucked hard. The birth of a rainbow baby would certainly have a lot of meaning during that difficult month…
I’m in a weird place fertility-wise.
After several months of considering and discussing our next steps, we’ve decided to do one more FET before pursing non-treatment options in earnest. I didn’t come to this decision lightly, of course. I say I here, because it was primarily my call. My husband has graciously allowed me to steer the ship since we began fertility treatment two and a half years ago, and he weighs in when he has strong feelings one way or another about something. While this decision-making compromise can feel lonely for me at times, I’m ultimately grateful that he understands it is important for me to dictate what happens to my body. The feminist in me has trouble with that phrasing, but I’m going to leave it be. Infertility is complicated and does affect both partners.
Much of the continuing conversation about how to proceed happened between me and my therapist, actually. Last fall, after our second failed FET, my therapy sessions started to revolve around moving forward. I questioned whether I was ready to try again. What if that meant another failure? Or worse, another miscarriage.
One of the very important things I had to start working through was if I could forgive my body for failing me. Following my diagnosis of chronic endometritis earlier this year, I started to make peace with myself. This was the reason I wasn’t pregnant and once it had cleared, I felt almost renewed.
That feeling of renewal was short-lived.
I’ve worked hard in therapy to better understand myself and accept that, without unlimited resources at my disposal, perhaps my body cannot sustain a pregnancy. I’m still working on this acceptance. In many ways, it feels just as emotionally painful as my miscarriages. Accepting that I can’t do what I want is as much a loss.
So the decision to conclude our treatment following this last IVF cycle didn’t come easily. But we’re preparing to move on.
My period should arrive this week, we’ll shell out the cash, and I should begin the preparation to transfer two of our last embryos, Olaf and Anakin (Kristoff will remain frozen for the foreseeable future, provided O and A survive the thaw).
So I’ll be here, singing “One Last Time” from Hamilton under my breath. Apt and giving me all the feels.
When I was in my mid-20s I briefly considered donating my eggs. At the time, my motivation was primarily financial, although I was not ignorant to the idea that I could help give a baby to someone who desperately wanted one. I’ve always wanted to be a mother, and I had no doubt that being told you couldn’t have one “naturally” could be crushing to a woman.
After some consideration I deemed my motivations too selfish and my work schedule too hectic to move forward. I didn’t give egg donation another thought.
I didn’t give another thought to that woman I could have helped either. I wish I could rewind. I had no idea, ten years later, I’d be the woman struggling to force her body do the thing that it was built to do. No one ever thinks that it will be her. No one ever wants to be the one running out of time, money and options.
My husband and I began trying to conceive right around the time we got engaged, four and a half years ago. We weren’t naive that given our age, both 31, that we were shorter on time than some of our counterparts to build a family. We certainly didn’t consider ourselves geriatric, but we could do basic math. We planned a July wedding and I sincerely thought I could be pregnant before I walked down the aisle. As long as I still fit into my dress, I would be happy.
Two years later, after many life changes, but none of the baby variety, we reluctantly were referred to a fertility clinic. After the prerequisite testing, we were given an unexplained infertility diagnosis, and I began the first of several rounds of Clomid + IUI. While an unexplained diagnosis was intimidating, I was still so unprepared for what was to come.
In March of 2015, only a few months into fertility treatments, I wrote this:
When I wonder how much longer I can go on like this, in this state of mind, it makes me feel guilty. I would give anything to be pregnant. And I’m trying to give everything I can. I am trying. But I am so tired, too.
I had no idea what it meant to be tired, then.
Less than a month later I would become pregnant for the first time. A month following the happiest moment of my life, I miscarried for the first time.
More than two years, another miscarriage, five more IUI cycles, two failed IVF rounds and a bout of chronic endometritis later, I know what it means to be tired. I read “not pregnant,” again, on that little stick just this weekend.
When I wrote that early post I was still so full of faith in my own body. I knew I would get the job I coveted of mother, and it would all be okay. The bloated, achy, overly hormonal side effects of Clomid would be a distant memory as I rocked my son or daughter to sleep at night.
But it hasn’t happened that way. Our infertility story is much longer than we could have ever expected, and we’re still very much in the thick of it. Infertility demands so much of your time, money, body and brain space. No woman or couple has any idea just how tiring this can be.
It’s hard to see the forest for the trees sometimes. Without the child my husband and I so desperately want, I’m not yet to a point where I can say, yes, everything was worth it. I’m still waiting. I’m still tired.
We’re nearing a crossroads. I’ve given my body, my energy, our money and more than four years of our time to science. Soon, we’ll need to decide how much longer we can continue, if at all. Facing that decision is parts scary, parts sad, and a small part freeing.
My husband and I are supposed to be parents. No one could have prepared us for what that would take, when it comes to others so easily. But we will be what we’re meant to be, someday.
Two years ago today I found out I was pregnant for the first time. It feels like it could have been a lifetime ago. At that time, my husband and I were still noobs of infertility. We were already a little more than two years in to “trying,” unsuccessfully, but still so hopeful that we were seeking medical intervention and would, no doubt, solve the underlying issues quickly, whatever they might be. We’d just done our second IUI, but as the TWW drew to a close, I wasn’t optimistic that I’d be pregnant. My husband, unbeknownst to me, suspected it had worked because he’d noticed a change in my boobs.
When I saw that stick read pregnant early on a Tuesday morning, I laugh-cried. It was such a happy moment. Later that day I stopped at Target to pick up “What to Expect…” because I was so excited to buy it and need it.
Of course, by later that April things had changed so much.
Last April we were dealing with similar circumstances.
Tomorrow we’re doing our seventh infertility treatment. Another IUI — the thing that has worked — now that my endometritis has cleared. A big part of me hates that this is happening in April. It’s too full of bad juju. The flip side is that maybe this April will turn it all around. Maybe it’s supposed to be April.
Or maybe I just need to stop looking for a sign in every damn thing.
The super annoying, potentially infertility-causing house guest in my uterus is finally gone! Following my third (and heaven willing my last) biopsy earlier this month, my chronic endometritis has cleared. Boatloads of antibiotics did the trick.
The day that I got the good news, I was actually terrified that it would be bad. I just had the worst gut feeling that the condition was still lingering, and had, perhaps, gone too long untreated leaving my my uterus permanently inhospitalable.
I’m incredibly thankful that doesn’t appear to be the case.
While the coast is currently clear, I’m eager to move forward as quickly as possible. “Quickly,” though, in infertility land almost always means waiting for your next cycle to begin. After some back and forth with the doctor and input from the most amazing nurse in the world, my husband and I landed on returning to IUI for just one more cycle.
That decision was primarily driven by financials (IUI is pocket change compared to IVF), but also by the tried-and-true approach of “well it worked before…” Said with a shrug, of course.
Both times that I’ve been pregnant were a result of IUIs. Since both of those pregnancies ended in miscarriages, though, we’ll this time supplement the IUI with progesterone shots (Crinone suppositories historically haven’t worked for me).
I’ve started the Clomid regimen. In previous cycles Clomid has flattened me like a pancake, although it has done what it’s intended to do. I decided I was willing to deal with the side effects one last time.
Mentally, though, I’m already checked out of this cycle. Although it has been successful in the past, Clomid + IUI has failed me twice, too. I expect it will again. My expectations are low — where I hope they will stay.
This will be my seventh attempt to get pregnant with medical intervention. That number seems very high, but also not high enough given that we’ve spent more than two years and thousands and thousands of dollars doing it.
There’s a mostly empty, unused room in my house. It’s the someday nursery.
My husband and I bought our first home last fall. It had been one of our primary goals since leaving New York City (other than the obvious one). We closed on our house just two days after we found out that our last FET didn’t work. At the time, that was probably the best thing for me. I was so busy trying to prepare for the move that the grief I felt over another failed IVF didn’t hit me right away.
I’d, of course, hoped that we’d get that positive pregnancy test just in time to move into our new home. We were literally leaving the place where we’d experienced two miscarriages and many more failed attempts to go somewhere new. It’s drenched in symbolism. I’d mentally planned to organize a specific room as our guest room, and leave the third bedroom a fresh canvas for the baby that was sure to have found it’s cozy home in me.
The room is still empty.
Last week, when I was feeling especially down on myself and stuck in this limbo of endometritis treatment, I decided I needed to do something about the room. I did have plans for that Saturday, so I made the room my plan. I was going to unpack the few boxes in there, set up our desk, hang some art on the walls.
I did none of that.
I didn’t even walk into the room.
Among the absurdly complex emotions I have about infertility is the idea that my whole life is on hold. That’s partially on me. I’m afraid to move forward for fear that it will just keep on moving without a baby. I don’t want to just accept things as they are. I don’t want to be comfortable in this uncomfortable place.
But, sometimes moving forward helps. Buying the house and all the logistics involved helped occupy my mind and kept me busy. Wayfair and West Elm occupied my time and my wallet. It felt really good to be doing something.
I constantly ask myself, what’s the balance here? How can I be okay with where I am right now without being complacent? How does anyone go through this sh*t and not be completely changed by it?
That stupid, empty room.